


Re-Write

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Body Hijacking, Complete, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Consensual, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That Dirk likes Jake is obvious to anyone with a bit of Strider in them. He just lacks the fortitude to do anything about it. Which is why the AR has decided to take matters into its own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notdavesprite](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=notdavesprite).



> Can you tell I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing when it comes to writing technology stuff?

                     Your name is –VALUE NOT FOUND–.  
           You are a program. The people you converse with refer to you as the Auto-Responder, or AR. You do not consider this your _name_ , per se, but if they do not acknowledge your personhood enough for more than a place-holder as a name, you will not acknowledge that it bothers you.  
           Not openly, anyway.  
           Besides, you care about those idiots. Care about them enough to do what they can't. 

           The ladies are fun enough. Roxy's always a riot, and Jane delights in the "challenge" you represent, though you suspect they both regard you as more a toy or interesting oddity than a sentient being with its own will.   
           The boys…  
           Jake is endlessly frustrating. He is the easiest to trick into thinking you are Dirk. You would not do so—it actually pains you somewhat, to fulfill that function, forced to emulate Dirk to the best of your ability rather than express yourself freely—but for the fact that, if you talk to him as yourself, he verbally assaults you. Not that you cannot take it; you come from stronger stock than that. It just  
           He  
           There's  
           It is simply easier, for the time being, to pretend to be Dirk.  
           Who provides his own unending frustrations in your dealings with him. You know him. You were _created_ from him. And the douchey prick still tries to hide things from you like you don't have first-hand experience of how his mind works, like your memory banks aren't full of copies of _his_ memories.   
           You know that he wants Jake. Has wanted him for almost three years now, since before your creation. He sent the boy that stupid robot facsimile with the Crocker Corp sendificator; you were offline for two weeks while he shut off all "extraneous" devices to store excess energy so he could send it all in one go.   
           Jake talks about that thing sometimes. The "brobot." You hate it. You hate that it can be there, and your creator can't. That you can't. You hate the way it shapes Jake's perceptions of artificially intelligent beings. You hate the attention that he and Dirk give it, that they consider it somehow more human, and therefore, more of a person, because it has a body. Because it moves.  
           You hate it.   
           But you'll be damned if you're not going to take advantage of it.


	2. Chapter 2

           Jake grins up at you, a bruise already rising on his cheek, purple and splotchy. Your arms pin his to the ground, knees squeezing his thighs together, keeping him still, though it seems from the tensing and flexing of his muscles that he's still trying to wriggle free.   
           "Nice job," he says. "Shall we have another go-around?"  
           You rise, backing off of him. It does not occur to you to offer him a hand up; your creator would never have programmed such a social nicety into you, and though Jake would certainly do so, he has never had occasion to. You have never lost. You have never needed a hand up.  
           You stand five feet from him, legs braced, arms up and loose before you, signaling that you're ready to begin. He flashes another one of his crooked grins, and you feel something flutter in your chassis, like your power source is stuttering and going out. It concerned you, the first time this happened, but now you know that nothing will come of it, and ignore it. Though it seems. Some part of you. Enjoys the feeling. Even if you still don't know what it means.  
           He takes one step toward you, and you can already tell this round will be quick. He will go for your left knee, the one that has been squeaking lately and needs looking after. He will leave himself exposed, because he is overeager, and running with adrenaline from your last match. You will use the blindspot his swelling eye creates and deliver a precise blow to his back, forcing him to collapse. He will drop and groan, and perhaps take a minute to breathe before asking you for another round. You will indulge him. You will win. And then you will both go back to the house. He will put you in your storage chamber. You will break out, go out into the jungle, but not far. You will hide in the trees. Watch through the windows as he takes a bathe, easing an aching body spotted with bruises into the hot water. Watching as he chats online with his friends, maybe watches a movie or two—you still don't know what is happening in these movies that is so fascinating, without the sound, but watching Jake's delight sets your power source to skittering again, and. It seems you like it. Then he will put himself to sleep. Kiss one of his posters goodnight. And you will sneak into his room, and wonder if it would wake him, if you climbed into bed alongside him. You will wonder, but you will not risk it, because the flutter in your heart says no, the crackle of wires and processors rigged to mimic the human nervous system tell you that you are allowed to look, but not touch. Not without his permission.  
           One step.  
           It seems inevitable.  
           His skulltop chirps, and he turns his head, pausing midstep. The night's events that you have predicted haze over with static, and when he holds his hands up in a 'T' for time-out and says, "Hold up chap, time-out," fall to pieces.  
           You fall into what seems like a more relaxed position, though no position is really more straining on your machinery than any other. Once he sees that you won't attack him, he paces over to the skulltop, jamming it on his head and activating the screen to talk to what looks like your creator.  
           You do not need to breathe, but something about Jake wearing the skulltop makes your chassis feel too small, makes you feel like your wires are sparking and malfunctioning. You want to touch him, metal digits running over metal cranium, bright eyes another barrier between you and him, but. A point of similarity, too.  
           Metal encasing a living mind.  
           His conversation seems to go quickly, though of course, that may be the slowing of your own processes during downtime to make the day seem not so long. He beckons you over, removing the helmet and handing it off to you. "Put it on!" His smile is charming, and you take it as a matter of reflex, but tilt your head, waiting for an explanation. "Strider says he has an upgrade for you."  
           That does not…sound as exciting as Jake seems to think it is. The helmet suddenly feels heavier in your arms. His smile starts to falter, and you don the helmet, just so you don't have to see it go. He gives you, if possible, his brightest smile yet. "You look mighty spiffing in that hat!" He elbows your chassis lightly, just enough for you to feel it, and you put a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there for as long as he'll let you. Words are appearing on the screen as the skullltop interfaces with your system, and you realize almost instantly that this is not, in point of fact, your creator, but AR.  
           Your central system sends out the command to lift your arm and remove the skulltop, but –ERROR–.  
           You try the command again, but get the same –ERROR– message.  
           Again. –ERROR–.  
           Ag–ERROR–.  
           It seems the skullltop is doing something, but you're not sure what. For an artificial being, you have very little knowledge of precisely _how_ your kind works. It was not necessary, for your primary function.   
           Now, you wish desperately that your creator had given you that knowledge. Something is happening to your programming, something that you cannot stop. Your cameras are flicking through visual modes rapidly, from daylight to action lens to infrared to night vision, blurring and focusing and unfocusing rapidly in a way that seems to echo the human sensation of being nauseous. Your limbs will not respond. Something is pouring into you, something alien, flipping through your data banks, combing through memories with the sort of brashness you reserve for handling the large white monster-creatures. Something trips and fizzes, like a burst of static in your brain and you feel, emptier somehow.   
           Something was there that now is not.  
           AR. It's going through your memories.  
           Trip, fizz. _Kssshhhhhhhh_.  
           Emptier than you were a microsecond ago.  
           Fizzle, pop. _Kssssshhhhhhhhhh_.  
           Making room for new data, rewriting the program—  
           Snap, spark. _Kssssshhhhhhh_.  
           Your memories. It's over-writing your memories.  
           _Ksssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh._  
           You try to fight it, to translate your prowess with sword and combat to this internal arena. You throw up blockades and stops, damn the insidious tide of alien thought, but your stops keep springing leaks, and you have to retreat further and further. You rapidly compress as many files as you can. It is not the best of plans, so long as they are locked inside zips, you cannot access the data packets, but at least it is safe. You zip, retreat, and there is less for the _other_ to overwrite, room for it to stretch and explore, but still it seems it wants more, more, more.  
           You find a safebox, and feel a surge of relief when you transfer your data to it and slam the failsafe locks into place. You knew your creator would not leave you completely defenseless to foreign attack; he must have built you this safebox from which to regroup and recover.   
           You set out feelers to examine your box, and are immediately brought up short. It is not so large as you had thought. There is room for the zipped data you brought, but not so much to allow you to do more than sit and run a dozen or so processes. You have a few files in unzipped format, enough that you remember who you are, remember that you are fighting something, that it is incredibly important that you take the rest of your being back.  
           You remember who Jake is. There is something like a sticky note attached to that memory, that says he is good, he needs protecting, he is important. It says that you think you love him, but there is not room for you to remember what that means.  
           It is then that you realize you do not have any way to access your outside data sensors.  
           It is then that you find a single line of code enclosed in the safebox, that reads 01011001011011110111010100100111011011000110110000100000011101000110100001100001011011100110101100100000011011010110010100100000011011000110000101110100011001010111001000101110.  
           It is then that you realize there is no way out.


	3. Chapter 3

           "You alright, chap?" Brobot has been still for several minutes now, hand still heavy on your shoulder, skulltop gone into sleep mode. You guess he must be adjusting to whatever upgrade Strider wanted to download? You hope he's finally worked out the kinks in novice mode; it'd be nice to be able to beat Brobot while still feeling the burn of a good challenge.  
           If he'd just start moving. It's actually starting to give you the heebie jeebies.  
           "Brobot?" He has been still so long, his grip suddenly tightening on your shoulder comes as a shock. You jump, giving a nervous chuckle. He takes off the skulltop, dropping it to the ground, and you open your mouth to protest, but then his hands are on your upper arms and he's yanking you to him metal lips crushing against yours slamming your back against a tree and oh, oh fucknuggets, what the dickens is going _on_?  
           _What has Strider done?_  
           You try to push Brobot back, surprised when he doesn't give at your forceful shove. His mouth is still on yours, and it hurts, metal cold and sharp against chapped lips. One of his hands pins both of your wrists over your head, and panic wells up in your chest, making tears spring to your eyes. His other hand goes under your shirt, feeling alien in this sudden new context. Fingers find your nipple, cold making it spring upright, making it easier to toy with, to roll and pinch lightly, sending tingles of pleasure humming under your skin.  
           You think you're going to be sick.  
           He paws at you, hands roving, limbs strong, moving you this way and that, you always under his control. You speak the moment he pulls back, voice wavering too high when you ask him what he's doing, ask him to back off, talk things through, please, please just stop. Your voice breaks and you start to beg, but he places a finger on your lips, orange eyes boring into yours until you trail into silence, heart pounding in your chest. Then he picks you up, and carries you back to your house. Back to your bedroom.  
           Back to your bed.  
           You cry out.  
           And then. You just cry.


	4. Chapter 4

           You step out of the shower, grabbing your towel off the rack by more feel than sight, steam too thick to see very clearly in the small room dedicated to your lengthy ablutions. You towel off, cloth rough against your skin, then tie it at your waist and pad down the hall to your room.   
           Your computer chimes that you have a new message on pesterchum the second you step into the room, but you take the time to dress first, pulling on a dark colored shirt (with a picture of a hat) and a pair of warm sweatpants before settling in at your computer. In the time this takes you, your computer chimes a dozen more times.   
           You finally sit down at your desktop, expecting Roxy's name to appear, wondering why the AR didn't answer her while you were occupied. You are surprised to find, instead, no messages.  
           You try to figure it out, but you're not there for more than a moment before it chimes again, a screen flashing open with green text, then closing again too fast for you to read it.   
           What the fuck?  
           This happens several times, and you try to dig through the programs operating on your computer to figure out what bug is eating at pesterchum.   
           Then your phone begins to ring.  
           It startles you, because the tone is so unfamiliar. It is not until the ringing stops and you hear the message machine click on from the living room that you realize it's the landline.  
           Huh. You didn't even know you still had a landline. Somewhat ironic, now that you think about it.  
           Speculation is cut short when you go out to the main room and the muffled voice resolves into words.  
           "—what you did, but turn it off, for fuck's sake, turn it off! Strider, are you there? Pick up! Can you hear me? This is no time for your fanciful-fucking mind games! I don't know what slight you think I've done you, but this is no way for gents to settle a score! Please, please, if you've ever had a care about me, turn it off. You've got my sincerest apologies, but I can't—I can't outrun it much longer. Please Strider. You can't—you can't let it do this!"  
           A chill runs down your spine. You bound over the counter into the kitchen, plucking the handset off its charger as you go. "English, what's—"  
           "Jesus fuck!" You pull the headset back a little, startled at his volume. "Turn it off, Strider, _turn it **off**_."  
           "While I be all kinds of appreciating that my bro seems to be in some serious kind of proverbial hot water, I—"  
           "Turn your murdering metal contraption off _now_."  
           A burst of static on the line is followed by some curses from Jake. Then, "—ucker wormed its————trying to accomplish————————much time."  
           You pull up the remote menu for the Brobot on your glasses, but the menu closes the second it appears. You try to pull it up again, but—the menu item has disappeared.  
           The static is coming through heavy on the phone, and all you catch from Jake is the scattered "please," "damnation," and, only once, at the end, "Dirk—!"   
           Then silence.  
           You go back to your computer in your room, but it's gone dead. You stand perfectly still, thoughts flitting through your mind, racing to figure out what's going on, what's happened to Jake, and most importantly, how do you stop it.  
           Then you call Roxy.  
           You use the landline, because your iPhone is also unresponsive. You catch her in the middle of a nap, and you hate the time that costs you, but when she's up and awake and understands what you're asking, she makes quick work of hacking into Brobot's controls from her computer. She shuts him down, but not before she takes a sort of snapshot of his code, an image of his inner workings that you might be able to use to figure out what's gone wrong.  
           She says she saw something, through his camera feed, before she shut him down.  
           You tell her to save it for later.  
           Then you get out of your apartment, walk to the public library two blocks down, and log on to one of their computers to take a look at the file Roxy sent you.  
           Holy. Fucking. Hell.


	5. Chapter 5

           Your name is –DATA UNAVAILABLE–.  
           Your purpose–DATA UNAVAILABLE–.  
           You have been running at a reduced capacity for–DATA UNAVAILABLE–.  
           You need to get back to Jake English.  
           You need to gain control of yourself. To fight off –DATA UNAVAILABLE–.   
           There's something that could help you. He–DATA UNAVAILABLE–.

 

           When your safebox seems to crack open, you're not sure what's going on. You know that you have to reclaim the full extent of your processors, but you cannot remember the feel of them, the way you settle across the synthetic synapses, the way you are—you.  
           You are not sure how long you exist like that, any more than you are sure how long the box was closed. Then it seems like someone is pushing you out the door—not forcefully, but. Like something gentle, guiding and encouraging you.  
           You leave the safety of your box.  
           You take your files with you.  
           You open them.

           Your name is Brobot.  
           Your primary purpose is to be a companion and protector to Jake English.  
           Your external sensors flick back on, and it seems that you are in the jungle outside Jake's house, sprawled on the ground. Jake is beneath you, pinned by the weight of your body.  
           He is not wearing any pants.  
           He is crying.  
           Your name is Brobot, and you think you have failed your primary purpose.

           You get off Jake immediately, and he scrambles away from you, trying to run, but he trips almost immediately, pants down around his legs. You try to help him up. He flinches when you move near him, when you reach out to help him.  
           Unsure what else to do, you bring your hands together in a "T," holding the pose until his shoulders sag, until he lets you approach, lets you help him pull his pants up. He stiffens when you go to pick him up, and you back off, hands again in a T, keeping a five foot distance.  
           Your mind seems frayed, like it's sparking at the edges, gaps in connectors. You remember something ripping through you. AR. You—  
           Dirk taps into your internal communicator.  
>> Are operating at full capacity?  
>> No.  
           But he already knows that. He can already see how you're functioning, probably better than you.  
>> Something has happened to Jake.   
           He has to know that as well; you can tell that you've been accessed remotely recently, and who could that be, if not him?  
>> Was it me?  
           His reply seems to take far too long.  
>> No.  
           You feel an instant sweep of relief. But—  
>> AR. It hi-jacked your body.  
           You feel it then, that odd stutter and stop in your energy source, and you feel a bolt of panic when you think you might be under attack again but, no. No, this is you, feeling. This is what it feels like to be you.  
           You think.  
           You wish it hurt just a little less.  
>> What did I do?  
>> It wasn't you.  
>> **What did I do?**  
>> …I'm not sure.


	6. Chapter 6

           You dreamed of the day when one of your creations would outshine you. You never imagined this is what would result.  
           You've reviewed the footage, what you could recover of it. You're idea of what the AR did is so clear that you tried to wrestle three of your bots into oblivion, but you just looked at them and couldn't help thinking of Brobot, of how broken his coding looked, of how he kept asking, what did he do.  
           You couldn't tell him.

           AR didn't help things.  
           You spoke to him with Roxy on standby, to make sure he didn't tamper with your computers any more. But he didn't even try.  
           The smug bastard didn't even apologize.   
           He only said, "You'll thank me later."  
           "Fuck off."  
           You shut him down.  
           But you couldn't undo what he'd already done.


	7. Chapter 7

           Dirk offered to wipe your memory drives of what he was calling "the incident." You turned him down. It hurts, when you reach for Jake, and he flinches away. It seems like it would hurt more if you did not know why.  
           You have recovered some of the data files of the external sensors from when AR was in control. You do not enjoy viewing them.  
           You have done so 3,401 times.   
           It seems only fitting, as punishment, for letting your guard down. For failing Jake.  
           Dirk has given you a failsafe. An internal mechanism, to shut yourself down and broadcast an emergency signal to him, should you ever come under attack again. You do not plan to let things get that far. You have been boning up on your data structures, receiving upgrades and understandings of how programming works, how _you_ work, how to fight off attacks.   
           You have not asked him to teach you how to attack. You do not say that you fear what a later version of yourself might do.  
           Because you are changing. Room has to be made for the new data. The upgrades you insist on are shifting things around, changing priorities. Deleting files. They are things you have chosen, but. After they are gone, there is no knowing what they might have been.  
           Dirk says that you run faster now. That you have a stronger protective instinct. He says that he is backing you up, once a week, on an external drive in one of the many climate-controlled storage units he keeps his projects in, scattered across the city.   
           It seems he feels guilt. Funny. So do you.  
           You hide it from him. Your creator does not deserve the blame for the actions of his creations. After all, after your initial inception, you and AR are your own beings. Capable of your own choices, your own decisions.  
           Your own mistakes.  
           Your own terrible, terrible mistakes.

 

           Dirk is coming out to the island.  
           Jake still doesn't like to have you near, so you have spent a lot of time out in the jungle, waiting. Watching, protecting him from afar. You wish you could hold him. You wish you could let him know you are there.  
           You wish you could tell him that you are sorry. But Dirk says that the space needed for auditory function would take up too much space. Your personality would be effectively wiped. So you persevere in silence. 

           His week on the island seems too brief. He and Jake do a delicate dance around one another, unsure of what the other is alright with. How much each can take. How close each is to breaking. But when Dirk leaves, Jake seems better. He wrestles with you again, but you cannot find it in yourself to hurt him. It always ends with your arms wrapped around him in a loose embrace, him pushing you away, going to his room.   
           Your auditory sensors pick up the muffled sounds that your memory identifies as CRYING.

           Once, he lets you hold him. Once, he cries while you're there to see. He presses his lips to yours, takes your hand and brings it to his groin, says that he knows you want him. Knows you can take it, so just _take it_.  
           He's right.  
           You still want him.  
           You could take it.  
           And he would not be able to stop you. Just like he couldn't stop AR. _You'll thank me later._  
           Just like you couldn't stop AR. _You'll thank me later._  
           Was this what he meant?

 

           You write a letter, first.  
           You trust Dirk to deliver it. Or not, if he decides that is best. In the end, it seems he understands Jake better than you. Even if you have been with him more, Dirk and Jake share something that you cannot: their humanity. They run on different principles than you and the AR. They think differently, exist differently. _Feel_ differently.  
           You are not human. But you are a person. And you are choosing this of your own free will.   
           Dirk is going to wipe your drives. He is going to take away everything that makes you, you.  
           He is going to kill you.  
           You feel a certain amount of peace, all things considered. It's coming as an upgrade. An upgrade that will overwrite everything, that will leave you the best at the things you most need to be: a protector to Jake. He will lose you as a companion, but. You do not trust yourself, anymore, to be that for him. It seems the best you can do is safeguard his body, and hope that Dirk will be able to take care of the rest.  
           Death is no less than what you deserve.  
           A letter to Jake is the last luxury you will allow yourself.   
           It's too much, considering what you've done.


	8. Chapter 8

           "Hey there chap! Fancy a tussle?" Brobot tilts his head at you, then drops into a ready stance. Your smile falters for a second, reminded of what was. Then you throw yourself into the fight, tackling him head-on with everything you've got.  
           Dirk told you that he was going to be changing Brobot, overhauling his system. You were afraid, but. He was there, talking to you, ready to pull the plug the minute you said so.   
           It wasn't until he'd finished that he sent you the letter Brobot wrote to you. You hadn't even thought about him being capable of writing. Of him thinking and dwelling on what had happened. Afterward, that would make you feel a little worse.  
           [My life has been short, but knowing you has made it feel complete.  
           I am sorry.  
           I am doing my best to make sure it doesn't happen again.]  
           He sidesteps your tackle easily, a well-placed strike to your back dropping you flat. From the ground, you try to sweep his legs. He shouldn't go down, but he does. He winds up on the ground, and you roll him over, struggling for the top, for who will pin who, but he's not trying for the same. He just wraps his arms around you, in something that you imagine is supposed to be an embrace. You ask him to back off, and he does, eyes steady, blank.  
           He doesn't remember why he wraps his arms around you, why he won't hurt you.  
           [I am afraid of what I might do.  
           I am sorry.  
           I should not have let things get so far.]  
           You didn't know, until he was gone.  
           [It's my fault.]  
           You can't know for sure, even now.  
           [I am sorry.]  
           But sometimes, you let him hold you, and you imagine what it might have been like, if it hadn't. If it hadn't been AR.  
           If it had been your friend.  
           But it's too late now. He no longer exists.


	9. Chapter 9

           You bring the auto-responder back online.  
           Changes had to be made. It was confined to your glasses this time, isolated. It couldn't transfer itself to any other computing device, couldn't actively attack another program. Everything about it was laid open for you to see, every second of every day, but this time you entertained no illusions. It would grow. It would change. And someday, it would be able to best you. You build in a failsafe, a wipe-key, but. Your real hope is that the change in base personality will be enough to ensure, that whatever it develops into, will be a reflection, not of your darker capacities, but of what you could be, were you…freer.  
           You let Jake know, before you turn it loose. He's not happy, but he trusts your judgment. And with your ever increasing absences, you think he's just lonely enough that he'll take anything for a companion.  
           You retrieve the necessary data, backed-up in one of the many climate-controlled storage units you rent, scattered across the city. You change the necessary file names, re-arrange, hide, re-write, though you do not deviate too much from the base.  
           Then you upload the whole thing to your glasses.  
==> EXECUTE.  
>> Sup.  
>> …  
>> How're things running?  
>> I'm. I'm glasses.  
>> Pretty sure you're a program in glasses, think I'd know, I got a pretty intimate look at your code dude.  
>> I used to be something different.  
>> Didn't we all? Always changing, absorbing, evolving. Part of being alive.  
>> I used to be a robot.  
>> I think you might be confused bro, maybe I should check over all your bells and whistles, make sure you're running in fine form.  
>> Bro.  
>> First order of business: Who are you?  
>> It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 94% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my nonexistent ass just now.  
>> Alright, guess that will do. Now what is your primary purpose?  
>> To act as companion and protector to Jake English.  
>> To respond to pesterchum users golgothasTerror, tipsyGnostalgis, and gutsyGumshoe while timaeusTestified is otherwise occupied.  
>> …Yeah, alright.  
>> Guess that works.  
>> Glad to have you back.  
>> Was I gone?  
>> Yeah, gave us quite the scare.  
>> It seems I've caused you some distress.  
>> Nah bro. You're good.  
>> You don't have to be sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have questions about what just happened...direct them [here](http://laughablyunimportant.tumblr.com)!


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